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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882500">Call Me By My Name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken'>thedevilchicken</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alexios is Deimos (Assassin's Creed), Antagonism, Character Death Fix, M/M, Rough Sex, Sparring</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:28:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,150</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one person in Sparta who calls him by his name.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexios/Brasidas (Assassin's Creed)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Minigame: Round 1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Call Me By My Name</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/luneur/gifts">luneur</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's only one person in Sparta who calls him by his name. </p><p>His family introduces him as <i>Alexios</i>, so everyone calls him <i>Alexios</i>, like he's still the baby they threw off a fucking mountain twenty years or more ago and not a man. Of course, by Spartan law, he's not a man: he spent no time in the agoge, he never learned their ways or fought their battles, and he's not yet thirty years old. He's Spartan by birth and royal decree, not by lifelong indoctrination. Calling him by a Spartan name can't change the fact the Cult of Kosmos brought him up, not Sparta. </p><p>"Deimos." </p><p>There's only one person in Sparta who calls him by his name, and that's a man he thought he'd killed. </p><p>He's standing in Brasidas' doorway. He didn't knock, but Brasidas doesn't seem surprised; all he does is stand up from his dining table and turn around to face him. It's dark outside, and a cold breeze blows through the open door that makes Deimos' tunic rustle around his thighs that prickle up with gooseflesh. He's bare underneath it, but what really makes him feel naked is the fact he hasn't brought his sword with him. He doesn't need a sword to kill, but he doesn't like to be without it. It's a gesture on his part that neither of them will acknowledge. </p><p>"Come in or get out," Brasidas says. "Either way, close the fucking door." </p><p>The look on his face says he understands what he's doing here. The way he stands says he wants this, too, despite himself. So, Deimos steps in, and he closes the door; it feels uncomfortably like he's just obeyed an order. </p><p>He's been in Lakonia for a year now. Sometimes he thinks about leaving, but he's not sure where he'd go - he could take command of a bandit camp or a pirate ship, he thinks, and he recalls some of the places the Cult kept caches, and they can't all be empty. But it all seems like too much hard work. That's why he stays, he tells himself. It's not his family. It's not Brasidas. </p><p>"If you're here to kill me, just do it," Brasidas says. </p><p>"I'm not here to kill you," he replies. </p><p>Brasidas' mouth twists. It's not quite a smile, not like the easy ones he shares with Deimos' more famous sister, and the wry twist also twists in Deimos' gut. But he doesn't want him to smile at him. He doesn't want to be his friend. </p><p>"If you're here to fuck," Brasidas says, "you'd better take your clothes off."</p><p>HIs face feels hot but he does it. He unties his broad belt from around his waist; it's the sort that would look more at home on a brawler than a Spartan, like he's on his way to fight, and he drops it to the ground. His tunic follows quickly. He bares himself, except for his sandals, and stands there in the lamplight, hands on hips. Brasidas' gaze moves over him, head to toe and back again, slow and dark and hot. They don't like each other and Deimos tells himself he doesn't care. He doesn't need redemption, and it's not like Brasidas' forgiveness would wash everything he'd done away. </p><p>When they kiss it's not like absolution - it's like another fight, but one that Deimos doesn't want to win. Brasidas hauls him up against the wall with one thick thigh pressed tight between his legs, the one that Deimos wounded back at Pylos, and he rubs shamelessly against it until he's good and hard. Brasidas turns him, pushes him up face first against the wall, rakes his nails down his back and makes him shiver. He twists his fingers in his hair and pulls. He pushes two fingers into Alexios' mouth and he sucks them, gets them wet, because he understands. Brasidas rubs them between Deimos' cheeks, against his hole. He feels the head of his cock against him. He feels him push inside, roughly, and he's not sure if he does it like that because he knows it won't hurt him or because he thinks it will. </p><p>They've been dancing around this for months. It's been there since Brasidas came home from Amphipolis, wounded, weak, stitched up across his throat where Deimos had put the spear in. No one's tried to make them talk, and they haven't, not really; they've fought, though, since one day at the training field, when Brasidas was looking for a partner while Kassandra was away and Deimos stepped up before anyone else could. </p><p>He remembers the look on Brasidas' face; it was wary, but not unwilling. And when they were done, when Deimos knocked him down to the ground and straddled his chest, they both knew that he could kill him with his bare hands. He remembers wrapping them around his throat and how the look on Brasidas' face said he expected it. The look on his face said if he died right there then he'd have been proven right: Deimos was still a killer, and still a liability. Maybe he didn't try to prove him wrong, but he did let go. They've fought every day since, even though Kassandra's back.</p><p>Brasidas fucks him. He does it slow and hard, with one hand in Deimos' hair and one hand pressed to the wall, so close there's barely any room to move but he can feel him move. Brasidas bites his neck, hard enough to bruise even if it doesn't break the skin. His breath's hot. Fuck, this is everything he's wanted. And when Brasidas groans, when he comes, he comes inside him, pushing deep. When he comes, he wraps one hand around Deimos' cock and strokes him till he's finished, too. Then he pulls back, pulls out, and steps away. </p><p>When Deimos turns, his cock still flushed and hard though it'll soften soon, Brasidas looks at him. He rubs his mouth, rubs his beard, rubs his throat where the scar is. Impulsively, Deimos steps in and presses his mouth there, to that scar, then to Brasidas' mouth. It should maybe feel like a fight but it doesn't; it feels desperate, and hot, and like he wants something he couldn't even start to name. </p><p>"Deimos," Brasidas says, voice tight, eyes closed, as their foreheads rest there one against the other. And Deimos feels angry, because he always does, but over it there's something else. He runs his hands down Brasidas' clothed back. He wraps his arms around him, presses his mouth to his throat, and holds on tight. </p><p>Only one person in Sparta calls him by his name. To one man, he's <i>Deimos</i>, not <i>Alexios</i>. One man, at least, understands exactly who he is, and who he's always been. One man knows he'll never be anything different. </p><p>Only one person in Sparta calls him by his name. Tonight, he wishes he wouldn't.</p>
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